Freudian Slip
by Ms.GrahamCracker
Summary: A little unexpected group therapy at the Craftsman


**Disclaimer: I never owned them, but I sure miss them.**

**No warnings - other than to say I have no idea where this came from.**

**Spoilers for; Guns and Roses, Protest, Judgment Call, Spree, Janus List, Graphic, Ultimatum, Blowback**

**A/N; Takes place in mid-season four.**

**Summary: A little unexpected group therapy at the Craftsman. **

**Freudian Slip**

**~by MsGrahamCracker~**

_**Freudian Slip; A verbal mistake that is thought to reveal a person's unconscious thoughts, desires or emotions.**_

Alan Eppes reached for the scattered newspaper sections he had left on the ottoman when Don called from the hospital over three hours ago and tossed them onto the floor.

"Here," he said, his large hands on Megan Reeves' shoulders, as he gently guided her to the chair. "Sit here, dear. It's the most comfortable seat in the house."

David Sinclair moved forward and pulled the ottoman out of the way, giving her and her new crutches more room to maneuver. When she was in line to sit down, Alan took the crutches from her while Don and Colby each took a position beside her and helped her lower herself into the chair. Don leaned over then and wrapped his hands around the heavy cast on her lower leg and slowly lifted it up as David slid the ottoman back into place. Don found a blanket somewhere and placed it over her legs.

"There you go." He patted her knee gently and sent her a small wink. Somehow, it made her feel worse. She looked at her team members. All of them were dirty and scraped and bloody, with scorched holes in their clothing and soot in their hair. There was a large white bandage on Colby's forehead and David's suit pants had been cut to accommodate the gauze wrapping above his knee. Don's entire left forearm was similarly wrapped.

"You guys don't need to fuss over me so much. I'm fine."

Alan, clearly trying to hide his distress, rolled his eyes dramatically and huffed, "You most certainly are not fine. Your leg's broken and I'm not ashamed to say I don't really want to know how it happened."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. To be honest, she wasn't sure how it happened herself. She should have seen it coming. She thought she was a better profiler than that. She knew Jacobson was unstable and capable of trying something drastic, but, somehow she had missed his hidden need for infamy, to go now in a hail of bullets, to be the top news story on everyone's internet home page.

She knew he was methodical – obsessively so – that he would leave nothing to chance, so when his attempt to get Don to help him commit suicide by cop failed, she should have known he had a plan B. She just didn't expect him to detonate enough C4 to decimate half a city block, killing himself, putting two SWAT officers in the hospital and tossing her and the rest of the team on their collective asses.

Later, as the doctor was casting her leg in the ER, Don had tried to talked to her. "You have to give yourself a break here, sweetie. You can't blame yourself on this one." She knew he was right, but it didn't make her feel any better. They all could have died this morning. Instead, because of Don's incredible instinct that gave they all a few seconds warning, Colby ended up with a slight concussion, both David and Don had a slew of stitches they didn't have when they woke up this morning, and she was sitting here at Charlie's house with Alan Eppes fluffing a pillow behind her back.

"Part of me wishes I didn't know how it happened, either," Colby drawled. "I prefer my breakfast with snap, crackle, pop – not snap, crackle, boom. Nearly being blown up first thing in the morning by some nutcase trying to get his face on the news just isn't right."

Don shot the junior agent a dark look, and Colby, realizing he had just given Alan Eppes too much information, shrank backwards onto the couch, shamefaced.

To his credit, Alan didn't flinch.

Megan spoke quickly, trying to deflect the tension.

"Really, the doctor said I'll be fine, Alan. It's very nice of you and Charlie to offer to let me stay here, but I'm perfectly able to take care of myself."

"Nonsense. It's our pleasure."

"Besides," Charlie added as he came through the swinging doors from the kitchen holding a glass of water, "knowing you were here instead of home alone was the only way I could convince Larry to stay in San Francisco until his flight leaves tomorrow night. He was ready to start walking back to Los Angeles on foot if he had to."

Stopping in front of her, he handed her the glass of water, then removed a small medicine bottle from his pocket. He twisted off the lid and shook the bottle until a small white pill slid out onto his opened hand. He smiled, an odd nurturing type of smile that she was not used to from him, and offered her the pain killer.

She hesitated. She already had a pleasant buzz from the pain medication the ER doctor had given her several hours ago at the hospital. He had insisted, though, that she take another one when she got home. Charlie had driven to the pharmacy and had the prescription filled while Alan got everyone else settled at the house.

She didn't always have a high tolerance for pain killers and she knew from experience she didn't like the fuzzy, I'm-not-in-control feeling that came with them. As the only woman on the team - and a profiler, no less - in a male dominated job, she couldn't afford to lose control – or her inhibitions, as was often the case when she was on pain medication. Still, there would be food and friends and a soft bed to sleep in, and she did sleep well on pain killers.

Resigned, she took the pill, popped it into her mouth and washed it down with the glass of water.

"Donnie," Alan was saying, "we'll put Megan in your old room. I'll leave it up to you three who gets the pull-out in the solarium, the inflatable on the floor, or the sofa out here."

The three men looked at one another, both David and Colby frowning in confusion. Don, however, knew what his father was up to and shook his head. "Aw, Dad, that's alright. We'll just go on home. You don't need to put up with all of us. Just make sure Reeves there stays put and enjoys your hospitality tomorrow, too."

Megan frowned, letting her boss know what she thought of that idea.

Alan would not be swayed. "Well, what about you guys? Clearly, you're all injured, and since you won't be going to work tomorrow, you might just as well stay, too."

Don was ready. "What are you talking about? Of course we're going to work. Megan's the only one who gets the hall pass this time." At his father's doubtful expression, Don added, "We're alright, Dad. A few bumps, bruises, stitches, nothing that would keep us from sitting behind a desk and muddling our way through paperwork for a few days."

Alan considered his position. Truthfully, neither Don, David nor Colby were injured enough to require any medical leave and he had learned long ago to choose his fights with his oldest. He had also learned to give in, not just gracefully, but with compromise. "Well, at least stay long enough to get something to eat. We can order out. Charlie, get the take out menus - but, not that Thai place we had the last time. I had heartburn for three days."

Once Charlie returned with the take out menus and they all agreed on subs from Ty's Super Subhouse just a few blocks away, Charlie called the order in, then joined the rest of them in the living room. Don was sitting in the matching leather chair opposite Megan, while David and Colby took the couch. Alan had pulled two chairs in from the dining room for himself and Charlie. Charlie took a moment to pull the money out of his wallet for the food and put it next to the green fluted bowl on the table in the foyer for easy retrieval when the delivery person arrived, then sat down with the others.

"I don't understand it," Alan was saying, shaking his head.

"What's that, Pop?" Don asked.

"You're all reasonably intelligent people – resident genius excepted. I don't understand how you can just wake up tomorrow morning and go back out there again."

Don looked at his father as though the man had lost his senses. "What do you mean, Dad? It's our job."

"Well, I guess that's it. That's what I don't understand. How does a person decide to become a … policeman ... or an agent for the FBI?"

Don shrugged and scrunched his lower lip. "Someone has to do it."

Alan huffed at his son's pragmatic and less than satisfying remark. "That's a hell of an answer," he groused. In a lower and more accepting tone, though, he added, "But, yeah, I guess I understand." He paused, his eyes taking on a faraway look and they all waited for him to continue. "When I was young and in college, I wanted to save the world, too. You know, stop war, violence, famine. But, I was a pacifist. I could no more hold a gun than you and your team can dance "Swan Lake". It wasn't me. Before I knew it I was married, you were on the way, and I had a mortgage over my head. Things like that don't wait for the idealist or quixotic reformist. The city planning job came up and I took it. It was a good choice. It paid the bills – well, most of the time – and raising you two boys, the insurance sure came in handy. It also gave me the opportunity to do something I was proud of; something that would last."

Looking once again at Don, he returned to his previous subject, his manner earnest and filled with concern, the question still evident in his expression.. "But, I didn't have to face what you guys do. No one was trying to blow me up. How does a person decide to put themselves in danger everyday? I mean, I've seen your paycheck. I know it's not the money."

"Dad!"

"Aw, don't get all self-righteous on me. I'm just curious." He turned to David and Colby, who were listening intently on the couch. "In Donnie's case, for awhile, his mother and I thought maybe he became a federal agent just to show us where we had gone wrong."

Uncomfortable with the conversation taking a turn in his direction, Don corrected his father quickly. "Aw, Dad, I told you before that wasn't it."

"I know. I know. You felt it was something you would be good at – and you are. You all are. I guess I just need to understand the motivation behind putting your lives at risk every day."

Don sighed tiredly and scrubbed his hand down his face. "He's not going to let this one rest, guys. Come on, Colb, help me out here. Why did you join the bureau?"

Everyone turned to the young agent, who froze, mouth opened, eyes wide at the unexpected question. "Uh," he started, then shrugged in surrender and said, "Well, I guess it was Gary Cooper."

No one said anything, but Alan nodded his head, obviously understanding Colby's cryptic remark. "High Noon," he said, confidently.

"Yeah," Colby confirmed, a small self-conscious smile spreading across his face. "I broke my leg when I was ten. My uncle loaned us his VCR and my Dad went out and bought one movie – High Noon. I watched it all summer. That image of Cooper facing the bad guy alone, in the middle of the street, with only his six gun and his sense of duty … I don't know, I guess it just stuck with me."

Megan blinked, slowly. She was finding it hard to maintain concentration. She had been following the conversation and had heard Don ask Colby why he became an agent. She hadn't been surprised to hear his answer and had thought it funny, in a strange way, that her father had played a part in her decision to join the bureau, as well. She had been the last of four daughters, her father's final chance for a son. As hard as she tried, she could never please him, never felt like she fit in anywhere; at home, at school, at her parents country club. Lost, she had left home at 16, made a few hard choices, but eventually found her way to the FBI. She finally felt like she belonged, and when she was assigned to LA and Don's team, she felt like she was home.

Her first case working with Don and David was also Colby's first one. He made his opinion on profilers very clear - "never figured coulda, woulda, shoulda would fit in a homicide investigation." She smiled at his past naivety. He had since learned that both profiling and math could be used to enhance their investigative skills and capture criminals more quickly.

She thought about his revelation, his confession of a boyhood hero's influence on his choice of profession. Gary Cooper's portrayal of the iconic lawman had no doubt been the inspiration of generations of law enforcement, including Colby.

She could see him in that role. She closed her eyes and saw Colby Granger, a white hat pulled low on his forehead, a five pointed tin star on his chest, his boots beating a rhythmic pattern as he walked along the rough wooden planked sidewalk of a frontier town. He would smile and tip his hat, gallantly, to the ladies as they walked by, unaware of their slow turns and appreciative looks once he passed. The western lawman's greatest asset, his six-gun, would be at his hip, snug in the holster against his tight Levi's, the leather strap stretched across the thick muscles of his thigh. She could see him, as well, as the indomitable sheriff, dedicated to taming the town and protecting the citizens, even if it meant a showdown with a ruthless desperado in the middle of the hot, dusty street.

The lone hero – it fit Colby – it fit his sense of duty and honor. Of all of them, perhaps Colby understood it best. Yeah, Colby would have made a great sheriff – and he would have looked damn good doing it.

She opened her eyes quickly. _Where did that come from? _she wondered. She looked around the room and was relieved to see no one had seen the blush on her cheeks. She took a deep cleansing breath and tried to focus again on the conversation.

"You know, John Wayne didn't like that movie," Alan told them. " Yeah, he thought it was un-American that the townspeople would all refuse to stand with the sheriff when he needed them. But, I guess we all need to stand alone sometime in our lives, don't we."

He turned, then to David Sinclair. "How about you, David? Did the Code of the West inspire you, too?"

David laughed, a full throaty one, and answered, "Not where I grew up, Mr. Eppes. No way, for me it was Batman."

"The Caped Crusader." Charlie drew the words out dramatically in a low baritone announcer's voice.

David laughed again, a little embarrassed, and just a little defensive. "Yeah, crusader for justice, you know."

"Like a superhero?" Alan asked.

"Well, that depends on which side you're on. There are some who claim he can't be considered a superhero because he doesn't have any super powers. They call him just a vigilante with a big ego."

"What side are you on?"

"Oh, I say he's the real deal. Superman has all these alien powers – it's an unfair advantage, you know. Batman is simply a man who got tired of the criminals winning all the time."

"Yeah, and isn't he like filthy rich?" Don asked.

"His secret identity, Bruce Wayne, is, so yeah, what he lacks in superpowers he makes up for in a lot of awesome, high-tech, high-priced gadgets."

Charlie leaned forward in his seat and offered, "Actually, it could be postulated that Batman is more effective _because_ he has no super powers. He's cunning and resourceful, using logic and deductive reasoning to outwit the criminals. He has the mental ability to solve complex puzzles and because of his aggressive and intense training he has the physical prowess to overpower his enemies."

David nodded, obviously agreeing with everything the mathematician had said. "Right! Soooo," he said, sounding very much like he did when they were putting the pieces together during a case in the war room, " superhuman detective skills, superhuman strength, and superhuman wealth. Yeah, like I said - superhero."

A lethargic and heavy feeling was settling over Megan. She sat quietly, trying to conceal her rapidly deteriorating mental status and maintain some hold on her thoughts.

She still had control of herself, but she felt as though she were a few seconds behind everyone else. She took a moment to distance herself from the ongoing conversation to think about David and the small part of his past he had just revealed. Apparently, she thought, profiling skills were the last vestige of sanity to remain.

She thought of David, as a young boy growing up on the streets, struggling to survive and stay out of the gangs, fighting his way out of the low income, crime-ridden area, trying to make something of himself. It made sense that Batman would be the ultimate hero – "the dark figure, appearing in times of trouble or danger, his cowled visage instilling fear into the hearts of bad guys everywhere."

_Yeah, she thought, so what. I watched Batman cartoons when I was younger._ At the time she thought it would bring her closer to her father – you know, it was something a boy would do.

David would have made a great Batman, she mused; not so much as a vigilante, because David Sinclair was too regimented for that, but as a powerful force to even the playing field in favor of justice. She pictured him, standing on the top of the tallest building, his scalloped batwing-like cape swirling around behind him, his dark eyes peering through the darkness, searching for criminals to swoop down on and vanquish with his amazing strength or something cool from his utility belt.

Yeah, David and Batman – both of them advocates for justice, both of them willing to fight the good fight for those who couldn't, both of them athletic and fit and filling out that tight fitting body suit that accented the well developed muscles of his upper chest, his trim abdomen, powerful legs and that package that showed Batman was definitely a man. . .

_Shake it off, Reeves. This is ridiculous. You need to stay focused._

Once again, she breathed deeply through her nose, held it a moment, then relaxed and released the air though her mouth. Composing herself, she turned her attention to the comforting sound of Alan's voice, as he spoke to Don again.

"Didn't you tell me you actually held John Dillinger's gun?

Don nodded. "Yeah, I remember looking at it and thinking about the pride and service that goes with being an agent. We have to do all we can to stop guys like that. I mean, I know we got Dillinger and everything, but look at Al Capone. He hurt a lot of people and he ended up going to prison for tax evasion. That just wasn't right."

"At least they got him for something. At least he was put away where he couldn't do any more harm," David commented.

"Yeah," Colby agreed, "like those guys they showed at the end of Dragnet – you know, with their crime and sentence superimposed over their mug shots. I loved that scene."

Don smiled, enjoying this banter with his team members. "Well, it never hurts being the hero, huh?

"Yeah, like I said, Batman."

"Or Gary Cooper."

Or like Don, Megan thought, protecting the innocents of the world.

That's it! She thought. That's exactly what Don is. He's the protector – the stalwart defender – the knight on the noble white steed.

Feeling herself losing control again, she tried to fight it, but eventually succumbed once again to the medicine's affect, and in her Vicodin induced haze she saw Don standing before her, fresh from the fight, his armor dirty and scraped and bloody. With a mighty effort, he raised his heavy sword a few feet into the air, then plunged it, point first, into the ground beside him. It remained upright, his enemies' blood that covered the surface slowly trailing towards the ground. He reached up with gloved hands and removed the armor's headpiece. The hair around his neck and forehead was sticking to his skin, which was covered with a fine sheen of sweat. He laughed and shook his head, spraying the immediate area with the moisture. His dark eyes danced with excitement – and something else. He was smiling, that infectious, endearing smile of his that ordinarily warmed her heart, but, now his smile shimmered with seduction and danger and temptation, burning it's way through her with flames of desire. He sent her a heated glance, one filled with the promise of erotic pleasure. Beneath his chest plate she knew his breaths were deep and measured, adrenaline fueled, and she found herself matching each breath, each exhale, each …

Megan froze, once again alarmed at the direction of her thoughts. Could she have hit her head during the explosion? Could the doctors actually have missed a severe head injury? Or was she just losing her sanity.

_What did Charlie give me? It was only one pill, right?_

"Hey, Megan, you're looking a little flushed over there. You okay?"

Don actually stood up and started towards her. She waved him away quickly. "I'm fine. Really."

"You do look a little flustered, dear. Maybe you should lie down."

Alan's concern was momentarily halted by the sound of the delivery person at the door. She sighed with relief as everyone's attention was blessedly taken by the arrival of food.

While Charlie paid for the subs, Alan retrieved paper plates from the kitchen and Don began pulling sandwiches out of the sack. When everyone had their order, the room became quiet for a few minutes while everyone started eating.

Nearly halfway through his sandwich – way ahead of everyone else – Colby looked up at Charlie, who was just taking a bite of his. "How about you, Charlie. Why are you here?"

Charlie frowned and swallowed, looking back at Colby with a puzzled, slightly amused look. "I live here," he said simply.

Colby wouldn't be swayed. "Come on, you know what I mean. Why do you do it?"

"Do what?" Charlie persisted. "I'm not an agent. I just help out some."

"Aw, you know you're practically one of the team," David joined in.

"Yeah," Don reached over and affectionately poked his brother in the side, "you're one of the good guys, Chuck. What made you start helping out?"

Charlie suddenly looked uncomfortable and his gaze immediately dropped down and away. Even in her diminished capacity, Megan saw the fear and apprehension in the mathematician and felt the tension in the room. Alan, David and Colby all concentrated on their food while Don continued to look at his brother, waiting for an answer. Is it possible, she wondered, that Don's the only one who doesn't know how much working with him means to Charlie?

Alan leaned forward, put a hand on his Charlie shoulder and provided an answer. "I think for Charlie, he just saw it as an opportunity to show everyone how math is connected to everything. How beautiful and useful his numbers are."

In bleary, slow motion, because, at this point, she couldn't do anything else, Megan turned her gaze to the young mathematician. It had been so easy to imagine Colby as the frontier sheriff and David as the Dark Knight and Don as a chivalrous champion, but as she looked at Charlie, all she saw was … Charlie. Charlie, who didn't need a six-shooter, or utility belt or sword to fight crime. He didn't need a weapon, because he _was_ the weapon.

He didn't have a magical abacus or supercharged calculator; what he had was passion – and she found that incredibly sexy.

It was no secret she had a fondness for men who were slightly quirky and of above average intelligence – and Charlie had won her heart during that first case when he had presented her with a origami blossom, but, in the end, he was too much like a younger brother.

And now, agent or not, he was an intricate part of their team – an impassioned, sexy, curly-haired member of their very own private Justice League of America.

_Oh, please, just put me to bed! Do something before I really embarrass myself._

She heard Alan talking again and pulled herself back, blinking her eyes several times, breathing deeply, struggling to focus on what he was saying.

"So, Granger there joined the bureau for honor and duty. Sinclair, for truth, justice and the American Way." Quickly, because he knew David would protest, he waved his hand with just a touch of irritation when David opened his mouth. "I know, I know, wrong cape." Everyone smiled and he continued. "Donnie's on a personal mission to stop all the bad guys and defend the innocent and Charlie just wants to solve the world's biggest mysteries using math." He turned to Megan, who was sitting quietly, her head swaying slightly, too heavy to remain still; her eyelids half closed, too heavy to remain open. "How about you, dear. What was your inspiration? Did you join because of some Freudian concept of psychoanalyzing the unconscious criminal mind or repressed super ego?"

She snorted and knew she was in trouble when she realized she wasn't embarrassed. She giggled, then and they all looked at her.

"Wow," Charlie grinned, "I think the meds have gotten to her."

Don, David and Colby all exchanged amused looks, enjoying the sight of the normally controlled agent 'under the influence'. "Come on, Reeves, 'fess up," Don teased. "We all had to. What made you join the bureau?"

To her horror she couldn't stop herself. "Hmmmmmmm." She raised her unfocused eyes to the ceiling, appearing to think, then smiled, coyly, and brought the conversation to an instant and crushing stop. "Well," she purred, "let's just say I like hanging around with cute guys who know how to use their big weapons."

**The end**


End file.
